


The Journey

by PeachWord



Category: White Collar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-26 20:59:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12566072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachWord/pseuds/PeachWord
Summary: Neal is kidnapped.





	1. Chapter 1

Wednesday mornings were never Peter’s day. Some error or miscalculation were always a rye; his coffee mug was a centimeter too far on the counter—it fell and broke; his brown sock had a hole near the big toe; a fender bender a half a mile from the office led to a forty-five minute bumper-to-bumper game of traffic.

This Wednesday morning was no different.

“You’re going to need a hot dog for that mustard,” Jones said, cracking a smile as he sat down in the conference room.

Peter immediately looked down at his tie. Crusted, yellow with black dots as the spice. “Damn,” he whispered under his breath. “Must’ve forgotten to put it in the pile for the cleaners.”

“C’mon, boss, we all know how you like to pinch pennies,” Diana said.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Peter said with a slight jovial tone. “Let’s get to work. We’re looking into Timothy Ryan, former CEO of Ryan Enterprises—pretty huge deal in the hedge fund game here in the city. He dismantled his company three months ago—”

“Ponzi scheme?” Jones asked.

“Not quite,” Peter said, bringing his picture up on the screen. “Ryan is believed to have taken money from his clients---legitimately, however all the profit he has personally made, we believe he is now laundering it overseas.

“So isn’t that Interpol’s problem now?”

“It would be, but we believe Ryan is putting the money back into the US stock market. He’s been generating millions off his earnings and we have a tip that it may be insider trading.”

“Jeez,” Diana said, “this guy is looking to win white collar criminal of the year with all the crimes I can think he is committing.”

“We need a way to figure out who is informant is—who’s giving him the insider deal,” Peter said.

“This would be right up Neal’s alley,” Jones said under his breath.

Peter looked up, breathed, and then looked back down at his file.

Jones put his pen down. “Sorry, Peter.”

Peter waved his hand. “Nah, it’s fine.”

Both Jones and Diana didn’t say a word. They both knew there had been no updates; if there was Peter would be the first to tell them.

“Let’s get to work.”

As his colleagues started to stand, Peter left the conference room and headed the ten feet to his office. He sat down behind his desk and waited for his computer to start up. He ran his fingers over the mahogany of his desk drawer and sighed. Three months had come and gone.

It was a Wednesday when he first failed to show up at the office. A half hour late was nothing too unusual, even though Peter gave him a mouthful for it. His ankle bracelet showed he was in his apartment. A hangover, a woman—all the routine thoughts and possibilities for his tardiness. And then another half hour and six missed cell phones calls is when he was furious enough to drive all the way uptown. He didn’t even bother to knock.

But Neal was nowhere to be found.

Peter couldn’t understand—his ankle bracelet was nowhere in that apartment and he checked high and low for it. His clothes were there, his paintings, his water colors, his hat—all in place.

So where the hell was he?

No one knew.

He ran, the Marshals said. The CIA, Interpol—all alerted.

And part of Peter believed he had run away—somewhere in Europe most likely. He found a hacker to mess with his bracelet and simply vanished.

But Mozzie---Mozzie made the other half of his brain wonder, almost viciously. Mozzie believed other than what he was told—Neal was taken, because Neal would never leave without some kind of goodbye.

Peter checked every day; Interpol, CIA, his own department. Nothing. No sightings, no communications from Neal Caffrey. It became a habit, the checking, but Peter never truly thought anything of it. Neal was gone, off in some exotic land with a beautiful woman, drinking champagne and living life. He tried not to think of it any other way.

“Agent Burke.”

Peter didn’t even turn around. It was 5:15 and Elizabeth wanted him home at 5. The elevator door had just opened. He stepped inside and pressed for the main lobby.

“Agent Burke.”

“It can wait until tomorrow, Lisa.”

Lisa Kuby, an agent who had been transferred from OPR about a month ago, slipped her foot into the elevator, preventing it from closing. The door slowly inched is way back into the wall.

“Lisa, go home, I’m sure—”

“You need to go to Cedar Sinai Hospital, the lower east side, Room 565.”

Peter cleared his throat. “Why?”

“A nurse just informed me that Neal Caffrey was admitted there about an hour ago. You’re his medical proxy and they need you to make some decisions.”

The elevator door closed before Peter could say anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter looked at his phone. The screen was black. He looked at it again. He checked his watch. 10:15.

The plastic chair beneath him did nothing for his back.

The sterile smell of plastic did nothing for his nostrils.

He affirmed the blood transfusion four hours ago. He approved the central line three hours ago.

No one had spoken to him since.

“Agent Burke.”

He looked up, that was his name after all. A tall Indian man wearing a white coat with teal scrubs underneath them appeared before him. Dr. Sans was his name. “Agent Burke, it is quite late, you should go home.”

Peter nodded, but he knew that wasn’t happening. So did Dr. Sans. And so the doctor took the seat next to the FBI Agent. “Is it bad?” Peter asked.

“Quite.”

Peter nodded. “I need to see him.”

Dr. Sans pulled a surgical mask from his pocket and held it out. “Neal is very susceptible right now to germs, I need you to wear this. Please, only five minutes. He needs to rest.”

With very still hands, Peter accepted the mask. As quietly as he could, he opened the door to Room 565.

His hair was damp; someone must have washed it. A thin sheet covered him up to his waist. The blue gown covered the rest of his upper body. Clothed bandages covered each of his fingernails, but Peter could see the crimson seeping through the whiteness. His breathing was labored, exacerbated by the oxygen mask over it.

Peter sat down in the chair nearby.

Peter could not detect a single bruise or cut on the handsome man’s face; however, it was clear just how gaunt it was.

Neal’s eyes opened slowly. They darted to the right and his head turned in that direction slowly.

The two men locked eyes; it was brief. Neither said a word.

Neal’s eyes closed again. His body slowly shifted to the left so he was on his side.

The gown was open in the back—designed that way.

Every inch of exposed skin was purple and black and blue.

“I’ll get them Neal.”

“No, you won’t,” he whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

His legs were weak from underuse—and a wonder to Dr. Sans as to how he stood on them, and supported what little weight clung to the young man’s bones. Two nurses, as gently as possible, held him up by his arms as he stepped on the scale.

Dr. Sans didn’t say aloud what his weight was, though Neal’s eyes read the numbers. 118.

He should be dead.

The nurses guided him back to his wheelchair; Neal was sweating and huffing and puffing as one rolled him towards the bed. The other adjusted his oxygen mask.

“I’m giving you more fluid antibiotics, okay, Neal?” Dr. Sans asked as he hung up the IV bag full of fluid.

Neal blinked and of course mindlessly nodded.

Dr. Sans registered this blank stare. “How is the pain level right now?”

“Seven,” he said softly.

The doctor nodded. It was at seven yesterday too. “I’ll give you more painkillers.”

Neal had long since stopped listening. He was looking at his hands, at his fingers-where his former fingernails were to be exact.

“Hi, Neal, I brought you a milksha—”, Peter began to say. He stopped as soon as he saw Neal sitting-something he had not seen. Did this mean he was getting better?

Neal locked eyes with him very briefly and then shifted his focus elsewhere.

“Hello, Agent Burke,” Dr. Sans said. He turned back to Neal. “Your lunch should be here soon. Please eat as much as possible.”

“Would you like to remain in the chair?” a nurse asked.

Neal nodded once.

As the trio of medical professionals left the room, Peter dragged one of the chairs towards Neal.

“How’s it going today?” Peter asked, placing the milkshake on the table.

Neal nodded once but didn’t say anything aloud. He resumed his gaze towards the window.

Peter remained quiet. Neal hadn’t said much the last two days. There was no anger in his eyes either, just a quiet sadness.

“All the leaves fell,” Neal suddenly said.

Peter’s head perked up. He too looked out towards the window. “Uh, yea,” he blurted. “They say it’ll snow any day now.”

Hot tears flowed steadily down Neal’s face. Embarrassed and ashamed, his covered his eyes.

“Hey, hey,” Peter said, standing up and alarmed. He grabbed a tissue from the table to his left. He brought one to Neal’s hands. “It’s okay—”

“Can you please help me to the bed?”

“Of course,” Peter said. He was totally unsure what to do at the moment, but he put his arm around Neal’s back and then the other around his arm. He didn’t want to touch his wrists, as they were covered in bruises; red and also raw from rope burns.

Neal gasped as he stood and bit down so hard on his lip Peter was sure he was a little blood. After a full 30 seconds, Neal took one tiny step forward. He stopped. Ten seconds later, another.

“Breathe, Neal,” Peter said softly. He felt the younger man exhale.

Neal took another step and that’s when his vision blurred and dizziness filled his head. He swayed to the right and Peter immediately put his arm around his hips.

“Woah, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Peter repeated. Neal was almost paper thin in his arms. He felt each rib, each bone. “C’mon,” he said as Neal got the bed. He pulled the blanket over his legs.

Neal was wheezing now and almost wanted to vomit. After a minute, his breathing resumed to almost normal.

“Who took you Neal?”

“Please.”

“I want to catch them, make them pay.”

The heart monitor to the right side of the bed steadily increased its beeping. Neal inhaled and exhaled though his oxygen mask but it seemed as though no air was getting into his lungs.

“Okay, okay,” Peter relinquished. “Shh, it’s okay.”

And so Peter just sat there, watching his friend try and breathe until he eventually fell asleep from utter exhaustion.


	4. Chapter 4

“As you requested,” Dr. Sans said, placing the plastic bag on the steel table. 

Peter swallowed hard as he looked at it. “Thank you.”

“I just need you to sign here,” the doctor said, placing the clipboard down. “It’s a routine form, stating that you are inspecting this bag of evidence, as well as taking it into your custody.”

Peter grabbed the pen and signed his name. “I, uh, just need a few minutes.”

Dr. Sans nodded. “Of course.”

Diana walked in as Dr. Sans walked out. “Hey, Peter. I just tried to see Neal but he was sleeping. The nurses wouldn’t let me in.”

Peter nodded as he put on his gloves. “He’s in and out.” He touched the bag, now with his protected hands but failed to open it as he had planned.

“I can do this,” Diana said softly.

Peter, aware he had taken just a second too long to start his task, shook his head. “I’m fine. Ready?”

Diane grabbed her notepad and clicked her pen. “Yes.”

Peter ripped open the perforated tab. The smell hit them both, hard. _Neal had to wear these clothes, for who knows how long. Man up, Peter._

“One pair of jeans. Ripped at both knees. Stained with dirt, possibly urine.”

Diana wrote this down.

“One long sleeved gray shirt….uh….uh….”

Diana looked up; it was obvious why there was the pause. “Peter, I can do this.”

“No,” he said firmly, placing the shirt down on the table. “Blood stains on both arms, left front side, multiple spot on the back.”

Diana took the pictures as required.

“One FBI issued tracking anklet,” Peter said, moving on. “Fully intact, working. Blood on its entirety.”

Peter sighed, looking down at the table, at the various items, covered in dirt and blood.

“I’ll have these  tested at the lab. There could be a hair or . . . some other type of sample on these things. It might lead us to something.”

“Something is missing.”

“What do you mean? In the bag? This is all Neal had on him.”

  
Peter shook his head. “I don’t think we’re looking at a standard kidnapping. These people hacked into his tracking anklet. They didn’t touch his face. And then they just drop him off in the front of a hospital three months after having him. And Neal won’t say a word about who took him or what they did to him.”

“You think he’s in on it?”

“No,” Peter said firmly, shaking his head. “He may be a con man, but I saw what his body looks like—beaten, emaciated. There’s no faking that. I can see it . . . see it in his eyes.”

“See what?” Diana asked.

“They broke him. He’s scared, Diana. Scared to death.”

She nodded. What else could she do?

“They used him. I don’t know for what. His art skills, his mind, his face? But they did, and then they discarded him. Like they didn’t need him anymore so they threw him away like trash.”

“So what are we going to do?” she asked.

Peter placed his hands on the table, surveying the bloodied, torn objects. “I’m going to talk to Neal again.”


End file.
